“Wow, Carson. That was deep.” I lean closer and he kisses my forehead, cupping my jaw in his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.” His hand slides up my thigh, and I recognize the wicked glint in his pale blue irises.
30
Rhett
“Have you been checking your calendar?” Allison dumps a stack of mail and paperwork on my counter the next morning. “I put some new appointments on there. Just want to make sure you’re seeing them.”
“Of course,” I lie. It’s the off season. I rarely check that shit.
“Good, so you saw the mandatory team meeting next Friday?” she asks. “Ten o’clock. Do not miss it. I’m sure you’re well aware, but your contract requires you to attend all team meetings.”
Coach and his fucking meetings. He’ll call one over the dumbest shit. I think he just likes to hear himself talk, and he gets bored when he’s not occupied with a rigorous regular season schedule.
“Also,” she says, rifling through the mail. She pulls out three envelopes with Greenbrier Law Firm in the upper left hand corner. “This attorney’s been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“The one who keeps calling about Bryce?”
“Yes, that’s the one. You need to get back to him. They’re starting to send letters now.” She pulls one from the stack that’s thicker than the others. “This is the newest one. I think you should open it. I’m running out of excuses as to why you’re not getting back to them.”
“I’ll get to it later.” I toss it aside.
Allison sighs. She knows me too well.
“I will. I promise,” I say.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Soon?” she asks.
“Soon as you leave.” I flash a teasing smirk. Ayla’s coming over any minute now, and we’re going to take the Hampton’s Jitney to Montauk to stay in some private beach house for the weekend—her idea of course.
“Rhett, please,” she says. “What if it’s important?”
“I’d really prefer not to concern myself with anything remotely related to Bryce Renner,” I declare. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“I don’t think they’d call every other day or send you several letters in the mail if it wasn’t something that could wait.”
“Allison, you’re killing me here.” I retrieve the letter from where it landed and flick it between my fingers. “I’ll open it right now.”
I tear at the paper, glancing over at her.
“You happy now?” I ask.
She nods, watching. Glad at least one of us cares enough to be curious.
There’s a letter inside and another envelope with my name scribbled in Bryce’s handwriting. Unfolding the first piece of paper, my eyes skim across the words.
Dear Mr. Carson,
We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks in regards to the estate of Bryce J. Renner as you have been named a beneficiary. Please contact my office at your earliest convenience so we can ensure a timely distribution of your portion of the Renner trust.
V/r,
Liam Greenbrier
Attorney at Law
Encl: Copy of Personal Letter from Client to Beneficiary
Tossing Liam’s note aside, I grab the envelope with Bryce’s handwriting and hesitate before ripping it open. All I want to do is move on from all of this. The sooner I read his stupid letter and meet with his attorney, the sooner I can move on with my life.
Rhett,
If you’re reading this letter, it means I’m gone. And it also means I failed you as a best friend and never had the balls to tell you in person. You were like a brother to me, the only true friend I ever knew. You were the only person who put up with my shit and stuck around anyway, and I repaid you by being a selfish bastard who secretly resented living in your shadow.
You did everything better than me ... hockey, women, friendship, life ... the list goes on.
The truth is, I didn’t deserve your friendship.
I’ve betrayed you. I’ve lied to you. I’ve done things I’ll never forgive myself for, and I wish I had a compelling reason for all of it, but I don’t.
So I’m leaving you forty percent of my estate. It’s yours, brother. Do with it what you want. If you want to give it all away, go for it. If you want to wipe your ass with it as a giant “fuck you” to me? By all means. I know money can’t change what I did in this lifetime, but you’re the closest thing to a brother I ever knew, and you weren’t only like family to me—you were family to me.
I’m sorry.
Bryce
PS—I have a half-sister. I never told you about her for reasons I won’t get into in this letter. She’s also getting forty percent of my estate. Just an FYI in case you’re wondering who the hell she is when you see my will. Her name is Ayla Caldwell, and last I knew, she was living in Los Angeles.
I’m clutching the paper so hard, it shakes. The letters on the page blur and my vision goes black.
Her name is Ayla Caldwell…
“Rhett?” Allison’s voice squeaks from behind me. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t speak—I physically cannot speak.
My jaw clenches tight, and I let the letter fall.
“Rhett. You’re scaring me,” Allison says with a nervous laugh. “What’s going on?”
Lifting my hand to my temple, I draw in a long breath.
“Allison, I need you to leave,” I say. “Just… give me space. Please.”
She gathers her papers and bags and scurries out the door which bangs against the frame but doesn’t shut.
Goddamn it.
My fist throbs a moment later. I glance down and see that I’m bleeding, and when I look up, I realize I’ve punched a hole in the wall.
“Hey, your door was open.” I turn around to see Ayla standing in my doorway dressed for our trip, her suitcase by her side. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I seethe. “Everything is not fucking okay.”
Her face falls when she sees mine, and her body tenses.
She knows.
She fucking knows.
And she’s known all along.
That’s the clincher.
“Rhett.” Her voice is broken, and she takes a tentative step in my direction. “I was going to tell you.”
“When?” My voices booms, startling her. “When?!”
“Soon,” she says, her hand on her chest. Her mouth is stuck open, like she’s searching for the right words to say, but nothing she says is going to change any of this.
“You betrayed me.” The words are grit and sandpaper on my tongue, and they taste bitter, sour. This is worse than a punch to the stomach. This is kicking me when I’m already down.
“I know.” Ayla hangs her head, eyes shutting gently.
“How could you?” I grab the letter from the floor, crumpling it in my hands and shoving it at her. “You knew what happened. You don’t think at some point you probably should’ve mentioned I was fucking Bryce’s sister?”
“I tried to tell you, early on.”
“Clearly you didn’t try hard enough.”
“You shut down the conversation. Every time.” She lifts a pointed finger in the air.
“So this is my fault?!” I release an incredulous laugh. “You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think for one second that you can justify what you did.”
“I liked you,” she says, moving closer. “A lot. I didn’t want to lose you. I was going to tell you. I swear to God I was going to tell you. I just needed more time. I wanted to prove that my feelings for you were genuine, so that when I told you who I was, maybe you’d be able to forgive me.”
“You’re delusional if you think I can forgive this.”
“Rhett.” Her eyes water, and her voice is breathless. “I’m so sorry.”
“Get the fuck out.” I rest my hands on my hips, and I have to force myself to look at her. “I never want to see you again.”
31
Ayla
I didn’t think he’d show up today—I honestly didn’t.
Coach Harris rambles on at the head of the table in the Spartans’ conference room. I’m on his left. Rhett is somewhere halfway down the table, boring holes into the back of my head. I’ve glanced his way a couple of times, and each time his stare pierces through me. He doesn’t blink. His jaw clenches. At one point he snapped the pencil he was holding in two.
He hates me.
I’m not sure Coach Harris is the most organized or the best at conducting meetings because we’ve been sitting here thirty minutes while he yammers on about the upcoming season and training schedules. He appears to be saving the check for last. Maybe he forgot? Or maybe he’s one of those people who talk so much they lose track of time.
“All right, Ayla, come on up here, will you?” Coach finally motions for me to stand several minutes later. My heart is rapid firing and my stomach turns.
Coach slips his arm around my shoulders.
“Guys, you remember Bryce’s sister, Ayla,” he says. “She’s the president of the newly established Bryce Renner Foundation.”
Shane smiles and nods in my direction. It’s good to see a friendly face in the crowd.
“Hi,” I give the group a small wave, my gaze passing over Rhett.
My eyes are still swollen from all the crying I’ve done this week. I tried to ice them before I came, but I couldn’t hide the bloodshot whites or the red rims.
I haven’t seen him since last weekend when I walked into his apartment. He was facing a wall, his back to the door. Frozen. At first I was confused, so I made my presence known. And then I saw the hole in the wall and the penetrating way he looked at me with this intense pain in his eyes.
My heart sank.
And I knew.
“Ayla, on behalf of the New York Spartans hockey team,” Coach says, “We’d like to present the Bryce Renner Foundation with a check for thirty thousand dollars.”
The guys half-heartedly applaud—except for Rhett, and I thank them all, taking the check from Coach’s hands.
“Ayla, you let us know anytime you need us. We’re here for you,” Coach says.
“Thank you.” I turn toward the table, eyes catching on Rhett’s again. He’s staring so hard it makes my stomach drop. I’d give anything for him to look at me the way he used to; before he hated me.
“All right, we’re done here. Suit up. I want you on the ice in thirty minutes. Strength and conditioning today. Hope you guys have been working out this summer.” Coach grabs his notebook and the guys rise from their seats, making small talk.
I glance across the room at Rhett for the millionth time. I can’t stop looking at him. Every time I gaze his way, I hold onto some irrational sliver of hope that he’s going to break that hardened expression.
I search for a sign of life; a sign that the Rhett Carson I know and cared about is under there somewhere. But he’s still stoic, and his eyes are still the coldest shade of ice blue I’ve ever seen.
The guys file out of the conference room—all but Rhett, and I follow. Shane stops me in the hall, asking how I’ve been, and I assure him everything is good and well. He gives me a smile and nod and heads down the corridor to the locker room.
I’m standing in the hallway, waiting.
Rhett’s still in there, and this might very well be the last chance I’ll ever have to tell him how sorry I am one final time.
When he emerges from the room, his back is rigid, his fists clenched at his sides and his lips forming a straight line. He looks in my direction, but he’s looking through me—like he doesn’t see me.
And I get it.
He doesn’t want to see me.
“Rhett,” I say, reaching for his arm as he passes by. Just like that, he keeps walking, so I follow. “Give me one minute of your time, and I’ll never bother you again.”
Rhett takes long, heavy strides. We’re getting closer to the locker room. I won’t be able to follow him past that point, and maybe that’s his intention.
“I’m sorry. I was selfish and falling in love with you, and I was only thinking of myself,” I say, words airy and breathless as I clutch at my heart. If he would turn around and look at me, then maybe he would see the sincerity in my eyes because the desperation in my tone is clearly not coming across in a way that makes him pause and reconsider.
I deserve this.
I know.
“I’m not going to justify what I did,” I say. “It was wrong. And I’m sorry for hurting you. But I don’t regret it, because that would mean regretting the time we spent together. And I wouldn’t trade those weeks for anything. They were some of the best weeks of my life.”
We’re twenty feet from the locker room entrance. He hasn’t slowed down yet. My heart is heavy, and my eyes well with thick tears that distort my vision.
He’s turned cold again—colder than before, and it’s all my fault.
I did this.
“Goodbye, Rhett.” My words are a thin whisper on my lips as he disappears through the door.
It’s been a week since I last saw Rhett at the Spartans’ arena.
I check to ensure my flight is on-time for the tenth time this morning and order a ride to the airport. The movers took the last of Bryce’s things to a storage facility an hour ago. My bags are packed. The apartment is empty. The keys are on the kitchen counter.
A small part of me thought maybe Rhett needed time to cool down; that maybe by the grace of God this would blow over and he’d find it in his heart to hear me out. But I’ve been met with a deafening radio silence. His message is loud and clear.
It’s over.
So I finished up the rest of Bryce’s affairs, booked a flight home, and let go of the last little thread of hope I’d been clinging to.
I take a seat on my suitcase in the middle of the empty living room while I wait for my cab, resting my chin in my hands as I take in this million-dollar view one last time.
When I told Rhett I regretted nothing, I meant it. I’ll forever cherish our time together. I’ll burn it into my memory, tuck it into the tiny corners of my heart and hold it near and dear until the day I die.
Maybe he was never mine to begin with; maybe deep down I knew I was only borrowing him. But my heart doesn’t know the difference, and losing him hurts just the same.
Eighteen Months Later
32
Ayla
“You ready?” My friend, Seth, stands in the doorway of my bedroom as I sit on top of my overfilled suitcase. I’m going to be living out of this thing for the next three months. Last week Hard Hearted officially launched, and my publisher is sending me on a three-month, twelve-city book signing tour.
“Yep.” I tug the zipper all the way around and climb off.
“We’ve got to get going.” Seth motions for me to hurry up. “Flight leaves in three hours and we have to take the 405, which is crazy this time of day.”
“I know, I know.”
His bag is at the door, and his car keys jangle in his hand. I take another look around at the modest-yet-comfortable condo I purchased last year with money from my advance.
Millions of dollars sit untouched in my bank account. I’ve still yet to spend a single penny of Bryce’s inheritance with the exception of the money I gave my mom so she could retire early. That woman worked her ass off to provide for me, sacrificed everything, so it’s the least I can do for her.
I plan to put some of the money back into the foundation and give some to charity. For now, I’m letting it grow, and according to my accountant, it’s growing like crazy right now. He says if I don’t touch it, it could double within ten years, then double again ten years after that.
All I know is I want to do as much good with it as possible.
My eyes rest on the gray velvet living room sofa where I penned the sequel to my first book. There were days I barely moved from that spot, the words flowing from my mind to my fingertips on a tidal wave of mess
y emotions—all of which were inspired by one person.
“You excited?” Seth asks.
I nod, my stomach filled with butterflies, but not the good kind.
“You’re nervous,” he says a minute later, loading our bags into his trunk. “That’s why I’m coming. Everything’ll be fine.”
I’m glad he’s coming. I didn’t want to go alone, at least not this first time. I’ve never done a book signing, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’m grateful for my one-man entourage.
I met Seth at a writer’s workshop in West Hollywood two Christmases ago. We’re one hundred percent platonic, but I can tell he wants more. Don’t get me wrong—Seth is extremely attractive. He’s a hair over six feet with chocolate brown hair, hooded, honey-colored eyes, and ridiculously sexy tortoise-shell glasses. He wears cardigans and skinny jeans and leather Chucks and he’s not even trying to be a hipster. He’s just ... Seth.
He reads like crazy. He’s ridiculously well-versed in American literature and he’s not even pretentious about it.
And he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.
Seth is the kind of guy who would take of his jacket and throw it across a rain puddle. He’s the kind of guy who waits the extra five seconds to get the door for the person behind him. He’s the kind of friend you can call at three in the morning when you can’t sleep and he won’t even be mad that you woke him up.
Maybe pre-Rhett, Seth would’ve been perfect for me.
Anyway, you can’t force chemistry. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there.
We climb inside Seth’s Volkswagen and he tells me I can change the radio station if I like. The ride to LAX is mostly road noise and soft tunes. I was so nervous this morning I forgot to eat breakfast, so my stomach rumbles every five minutes.
“You’re never this quiet,” he says, placing his hand on mine. He does that sometimes. He touches me like I’m his, like we’re a thing. I think he does it on purpose. It’s as if he thinks one of these days I’m going to come around.
Cold Hearted Page 14
